


3 am

by Vampowerment



Category: Hamlet - All Media Types, Hamlet - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Fluff, Happy, M/M, Time Period - Ambiguous, Wittenberg Era, like super fluffy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-09-19 14:44:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9445991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vampowerment/pseuds/Vampowerment
Summary: The door to the library opens suddenly, jerking Hamlet back to reality. There’s no reason for anyone to be in the library at this hour. Hamlet snuck in after it had closed, and--he glances at the clock to confirm--that was a few hours ago. He looks back down at the book he was immersed in until 3 am, suddenly losing interest.





	1. Who Could That Be At This Hour?

The door to the library opens suddenly, jerking Hamlet back to reality. There’s no reason for anyone to be in the library at this hour. Hamlet snuck in after it had closed, and--he glances at the clock to confirm--that was a few hours ago. He looks back down at the book he was immersed in until 3 am, suddenly losing interest.

The sound of footsteps starts to get closer to him.  _ Ugh, what if it’s Rosencrantz or Guildenstern… _ Hamlet thinks to himself. He’s almost certain his father paid them to ‘babysit’ him while he’s away at Wittenberg, since he can’t imagine why else they’d be so uncharacteristically nice. No, not even nice, they’re acting like sycophants.  _ Jerks. If it’s them, looking for me on my father’s dime, I swear I’ll-- _

Hamlet’s book falls off his lap with a soft thud. He groans, his place lost as the book closes. He’s probably gonna spoil himself trying to find the right page, though he’s certain he knows how it’s going to end anyway.

The thud must have attracted the attention of the stranger because the footsteps stopped. Hamlet freezes, contemplating whether he could escape Rosencrantz and Guildenstern without them realizing he was here at all. Before he could think up a solid plan, however, a voice interrupts his thoughts.

“...Hello? Anyone there?”

Well, that’s not Rosencrantz, or Guildenstern, or any librarian he’s met. He stands up, not quite wanting to answer but curious about who this stranger could be.

He walks to the end of the aisle and peers out to the right, then the left. He spots the shadowy outline of a figure, but it’s too dim for him to make out their face. They both stand there, staring at each other for nearly a minute before Hamlet breaks the silence.

“Did you break in?” Hamlet asks, trying to figure out if he’s in trouble or not.

“Depends on who’s asking.” 

“Someone who also broke in.”

“Well, that’s a relief. Who are you?”

O God. Hamlet knows the second he says his name the other will realize he’s The Prince of Denmark and suddenly this whole conversation will take a drastic turn to places where Hamlet does not want it to go.

“Just someone who’s here to read. Yourself?”

“Same here.” The other person laughs and Hamlet’s heart speeds up. “I’m Horatio.” 

“Nice to meet you, Horatio.” Hamlet says, surprised at how much he actually means it. He, to be frank, doesn’t think it’s very nice to meet anyone--especially when he’s in the middle of a good book. Why is Horatio an exception? 

“You as well, ‘someone who’s here to read’.” Horatio laughs again and Hamlet’s stomach does a flip.

“Why did you get the urge to read at 3 am?” Hamlet doesn’t know why he’s trying to carry on a conversation while he has a book to read and hasn’t even said his name, but he genuinely wants to know more about the shadowy figure who broke into the library at 3 am.

“I could ask you the same.” He paused a moment, as if waiting for Hamlet to reply. “Honestly? I couldn’t get to sleep.”

“Me neither. Or, I can  _ get _ to sleep but hardly stay asleep.” 

“Nightmares?”

“Unfortunately. At least I’ve gotten good at breaking into the library.”

“A rather useful skill. Are you here every night?”

“More often than not, at this point.”

The two sat in the dark, still a few feet away, talking about nothing in particular until daylight started to shine through the windows.

“Well, I think I’m going to attempt a power nap before class starts, or at least change clothes.” Horatio said, standing up. The light was still rather dim but it was bright enough for Hamlet to see the outline of Horatio’s hair and glasses. “Will you be here again tonight?”

“If you’ll be here, I’ll be here.”

“Great! See you then!” Horatio sounded and looked tired but Hamlet noticed a bounce in his step as he left the library. Hamlet moved over to his bag and began to pack up his stuff, before following Horatio’s idea of attempting a bit of sleep. He was surprised to find he wasn’t met with nightmares.

Hamlet skipped first period that day, having the best sleep he’d had in awhile. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern woke him up before second, which Hamlet promptly added to his incomplete list of reasons why Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are THE WORST. 

Shockingly, he doesn’t feel too awful. Four hours of sleep is more than he gets most days.

Hamlet showed back up at the library right before midnight. He sat in his usual corner with his bag of books and a dim light, until about half an hour had passed and he heard someone else enter the library. Horatio found his way over rather quickly and sat about a foot in front of Hamlet and smiled.

“How was your day?” 

“Not terrible. Yourself?” 

“Also not terrible.”

And thus, the two began a nightly ritual of talking until sunrise every night. 

“If you won’t tell me your name,” Horatio remarked some time during the second night, “than I suppose it’s either because it’s an embarrassing name--”

“I don’t much think it is.”

“--or you’re someone of celebrity and would prefer to keep that out of our conversation.”

“Perhaps.”

“There’s several dukes and duchesses attending this school, maybe you’re one of them  _ my lord _ .”

“Ugh, don’t call me that.”

“Well,  _ my lord,  _ you aren’t providing another name.”

Hamlet didn’t have to see Horatio to know he was smiling smugly.

His name appeared to be the only thing off limits. Hamlet talked about feelings he’s never let himself acknowledge and practically shared his whole life story--minus the fact that his family is THE royal family--by the third night. He talked about the time he caught his mother with his uncle, talked about his own fears of mortality and his morbid fascination with death, he talked about how he’s never truly had friends before, just kiss-ups and people who thought he was too weird to hang out with and the few who dared to be mean.

Horatio mostly listened, but talked about his own childhood. He talked about his hometown, and about how he’s only in Wittenberg on scholarship and doesn’t have much money, and about the few students who picked on him over his economic status and the greater number who ignored him because they assumed he had nothing of value to say.

Hamlet was mystified as to how anyone could ignore or pick on someone as great as Horatio. Sweet Horatio with his quick wit and that laugh that made Hamlet feel things he didn’t think he could feel. He half wished he could teach all those kids a lesson, but he wasn’t very good at his mandatory fencing lessons, however, and it’s been a few years so he doubts he’d win a duel, and he doesn’t really want a body count on his shoulders. On top of that, he hasn’t actually seen Horatio outside of the library.

Ever since the two started to meet at the library every night, Hamlet’s nightmares nearly stopped. Instead his dreams were filled with the Horatio’s silhouette, always just out of reach but comforting all the same. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Guildenstern asked from across the lunch table. 

Hamlet blinked out of his thoughts and looked over at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t seem as gloomy as usual.” Guildenstern said.

“And your dark circles aren’t as dark.” Rosencrantz added.

“Though, they are still there.”

“Yeah, they’re  _ definitely _ still there.”

“But they’re not as pronounced as usual.”

“And I swear I saw you smile earlier.”

“Wait, you did?” Guildenstern turns from Hamlet to Rosencrantz.

“It was scary.” Rosencrantz shuddered.

“So, What’s wrong with you?”

“Yeah, did you get a secret girlfriend or something?”

Hamlet looked back and forth between the two and sighed. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“But Ros saw you  _ SMILE! _ ” Guildenstern exclaimed.

“I… Smile sometimes…” 

“Name one time that wasn’t earlier.” 

_ Last night, and the night before, and the night before…. _ “Maybe I don’t smile in front of you because I don’t much enjoy your company.”

Rosencrantz gripped his chest in indignation, while Guildenstern fell to the floor dramatically.

“Alas! You have wounded my feelings!” Rosencrantz exclaimed.

“And this is how I die.” Guildenstern croaked in a voice which Hamlet guesses was supposed to sound as if he was dying. 

Hamlet’s used to this by now.

That day wasn’t the end of the two being nuisances--not that it was the beginning, either. They kept harping on Hamlet about his ‘secret girlfriend’ and it was driving him crazy. 

“Hamlet.”

“What?” Horatio asked, sitting up from where he was lying on the library floor.

“My name.” Hamlet closed his eyes, not standing up. “Is Hamlet.”

“That’s not a very common name.”

“Neither is Horatio.”

“And not particularly embarrassing, debunking that one theory.” He laughed. “I like it.” he added more softly, almost as an afterthought.      

Hamlet was grateful for the dark to hide his blush. Horatio didn’t even ask if he happened to be Prince Hamlet. He just said he liked Hamlet’s name. 

“We should see each other tomorrow.” Hamlet said suddenly.

“I thought that was already the plan?” 

“Yes, but I mean during daylight. It’s a Saturday, so there aren’t any classes. We could go get lunch or something. Uh, unless you’re busy or don’t want to, or--”

“That sounds great!” Horatio interrupted with much more enthusiasm than Hamlet allowed himself to process.

“Then it’s a date.”  _ O God, wait, that has romantic connotations, does it not? I better clarify I mean a friendly event so I don’t freak him out O God what if Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are right about my feelings O God O God--- _

“I can’t wait!”

_ I am surely doomed. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was meant to be a oneshot but now it should most likely be 2 chapters? unless I get carried away again????  
> I kept the time period kind of ambiguous because I didn't feel like bothering with historical accuracy (cause i'm a stickler for getting all the historical details right and that can be exhausting) but didn't really want to do a modern au either. I just want these boys to be happy, thank you goodnight.


	2. Is this a date?

Hamlet and Horatio had planned to meet outside the library at noon. Then, Hamlet would walk him to a new restaurant just off campus he’d heard good things about. Then, he was going to insist on paying the bill because he’s a gentleman and then Horatio was going to like him a whole lot (but not nearly as much as Hamlet likes him) and it was going to be great.

The first thing that didn’t go to plan was Hamlet’s plan to arrive 10 minutes early backfired, since Hamlet couldn’t find a black shirt and black pants that matched--which is a serious issue! He can’t be caught wearing a blue-black with a green-black that would just be awful!--so he ended up being about 3 minutes late and Horatio beat him there. So much for Hamlet’s first chivalrous gesture of the day. 

The second thing that didn’t go according to plan was when Horatio greeted him, Hamlet’s voice caught in his throat the second he lay eyes on Horatio and for what was probably the first time in his life, felt grateful to the sun. He barely managed to sputter out a ‘hello’ because the sunlight made Horatio nearly look as if he was glowing. The shadowy nights in the library didn’t do him justice.

“So, lunch?” He managed before averting his eyes.

“That’s the plan.” Horatio laughed.

“I’ve never eaten at this place before, so if it’s all disgusting garbage blame those annoying jesters that follow me around.” Hamlet remarked. The two had been talking all night, every night, for two weeks straight, so Hamlet had obviously complained about Rosencrantz and Guildenstern at least once or twice. Horatio instantly knew who he was talking about.

“I’m not picky.” 

Hamlet didn’t bother to mention that though Horatio might not be picky, he sure was. 

Conversation didn’t come quite as easily without the dark mask of the library. In the daylight it felt more… real, almost. More intimate. Though the scenery change threw them both off a little, they still felt a familiar comfort with each other, as if they’ve been friends for years. By the time they sat down at the restaurant, the conversation had picked up to it’s normal intensity. 

“I don’t think the point of the play was the romance at all, but the fact their families were so awful it drove them to death.” Hamlet was saying.

“How are you both doing today? Can I get you anything to drink?” Asks the waitress, interrupting their discussion on the true meaning of some tragedy they both read.

“Just water.” Horatio says with a polite smile.

“Do you have chocolate milk?” Asks Hamlet, arms crossed and a scowl on his face.

“Uhh, I’m sorry, but we don’t have any here.”  
“Then just water.”

“Coming right up, sirs.” The waitress smiles at Horatio before walking away.

“Chocolate milk? Horatio asks, an eyebrow quirked.

“My mom would only let me have it on special occasions as a kid. I kind of got addicted to the stuff? But she said it was unhealthy so she gave all our servants direct orders to not let me have any. It was such a little thing and I was a kid so it was dumb. I was only able to have it on special occasions? Maybe as some sort of consolation prize for having to put up with a castle full of drunk adults at the tender age of 10. Tasted good though, so I can’t be mad. I tried to order it today because… I guess today just felt like a special occasion?” Hamlet shrugs.  _ O God, that was such a dumb story, he’s going to leave now. _

“Today felt like a special occasion?”

Hamlet’s certain he’s misinterpreting Horatio’s warm smile.

“I guess so.”

“That’s cute.” Hamlet doesn’t think he’s breathing. “It feels like one to me too.”

_ O God, this is how I die. Not with a bang but by forgetting how to breath because Horatio thinks I’m cute. When did I become such a softy?  _

The waitress walks back with two waters and sets them down, then asks to take their orders. Hamlet realizes he didn’t even open his menu.

Horatio orders one of the specials and hands over his menu, seemingly confident in his choice. Hamlet quickly scans through the menu with both the waitress and Horatio staring at him, waiting, he closes it and just orders the chicken nuggets because there’s no way they can mess that up. Except he has had bad chicken nuggets before. So they totally can mess it up. O God.

Horatio didn’t mention anything about Hamlet’s order, despite the fact Horatio ordered a normal adult meal but Hamlet ordered chocolate milk and chicken nuggets. Maybe Horatio didn’t want another story about Hamlet’s dysfunctional family. No story there, except for the time he tried to run away from home and only packed a small amount of money and lived off chicken nuggets for a week and--ok. Maybe that’s a story. Hamlet sighs.

“What?” Horatio asks, “Is something wrong?”

“Nope, just hungry.”

Horatio nods quietly. Hamlet closes his eyes and focuses on breathing.  _ Horatio doesn’t hate you, you’re ok. _

“We should do this more.” Horatio says, absentmindedly stirring his water with the straw.

“Definitely.” Hamlet says, maybe a bit too quickly. 

They soon get back into the swing of normal conversation. When their food comes and they barely manage to restrain themselves to talking between mouthfuls. 

It would have been perfect, if Rosencrantz and Guildenstern didn’t sit down at their table.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” Rosencrantz says with a smirk, pushing Hamlet’s plate aside to make room for his elbows.

“Ugh, what do you want?” Hamlet groans. 

“Accusing us of some scheme? How could you, dear friend!” Guildenstern clutches his chest in faux melodrama before laughing.

“We just wanted to know who your friend here is.” Rosencrantz poked Horatio in case there was any uncertainty about who he was referring to. 

“Yeah! We saw you smiling and got seriously concerned! Our Hamlet never  _ smiles! _ ” 

“The gloomiest prince Denmark’s ever seen, I’ll bet.” Hamlet winced at Rosencrantz words, quickly glancing at Horatio who seemed mostly unfazed, though visibly annoyed. 

“Please,, just leave. I assure you you’re not wanted.” Hamlet rests his face in his hand.

“I believe we should ask your friend here first.” Rosencrantz turns to Horatio. “I’m Rosencrantz, and he’s Guildenstern. We’re dear friends of Prince Hamlet”

“Now it’s only proper you introduce yourself.” Guildenstern adds eagerly. “And tell us, how  _ do  _ you know our boy here.”

“I’m Horatio.” Horatio says, glancing over at Hamlet who’s glaring daggers at the two intruders.

“And?” Guildenstern prods.

“If you must know, we met at the library.” Hamlet says, rolling his eyes.

“Was it approximately,” Rosencrantz pantomimes checking a watch, “Sixteen days ago?”

“I suppose?” Horatio answers.

Rosencrantz smirks, “Then, perchance, he’s the reason you’ve been so uncharacteristically chipper lately?”

“Eat dirt.” 

“See? Chipper!”

“Can I get you anything?” The waitress asks, looking confused at the group doubling in size.

“The bill, please.” Hamlet says, glaring at the two intruders. 

“Right away, sir.” 

“Aww, c’mon Hammy, you’re not too mad at us, right?” Guildenstern leans forward on the table.

“That nickname will never catch on and if you use it again you’ll regret it.” Hamlet says. The waitress gets back with the bill fairly quickly and Hamlet insists he pay, despite Horatio’s feeble protests. Hamlet slams a bit more than necessary on the table, because breaking change is too much work, and hooks his arm with Horatio’s, turning over his shoulder to tell Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to NOT FOLLOW THEM, and walks off.

“Ugh, I apologize for them.” Hamlet led Horatio through the narrow streets, making sure Rosencrantz and Guildenstern can’t follow them. 

“No, it’s ok.” Horatio insists. “It was cool to see another side of you.” 

“A worse side, I’d say.”

“Not worse, truly. Just a bit different.”

Hamlet isn’t off campus very often. He spends most of his time either hauled up in his room (which he has to himself, royalty’s good for something after all) or the library. He, of course, goes to class. Mostly. Ok, he goes to literature class and if he feels like it, will maybe go to history. He nearly always skips political science. He shows up enough to take the big tests and pass the class so his parent’s don’t get mad, but not more than he has to. It’s awful and boring and everyone glares at him the whole time and it’s not like he wants to rule this garbage dump  _ anyway _ . Fingers crossed his dad somehow lives forever. 

So, needless to say, he gets pretty lost pretty quickly.

“Where are we headed?” Horatio asks.

“Wherever the wind takes us.”

“Does that mean we’re lost?”

“Perhaps.”

“This town isn’t too big, we should find a way out soon enough.”

“What’s the rush? It’s Saturday afternoon, we aren’t needed back until Monday morning. We can take the time to explore.” 

“Are you implying that we’re so lost it could take 2 days to find our way back?”

“What? No! I’m just saying we don’t have a time limit--”

“In case it takes two days.”

“I guess? It shouldn’t, but there’s no pressure. We can just hang out however long we want.” 

And thus, they do. Both the part about getting lost and hanging out a while. The sun’s nearly setting and they’d spent the past few hours eagerly perusing the various shops the small town had to offer. They hadn’t bought much, just stopped for dinner at a street vender and Hamlet had bought himself a new black shirt at one of the shops. (“This one is more of a blue black than green black so I need it!” Hamlet had explained.)

The two are sitting on a bench, kind of tired at this point. They had been running around all day, and don’t think they can manage to stay up as late as usual. They’re leaning against each other and Hamlet is desperately hoping Horatio can’t hear his racing heart. 

“Well, it hasn’t been two days.” Horatio laughs.

“It feels like a lifetime.” 

“Mentally or physically?”

“Both. I’m so tired but I can’t remember ever having this much fun before.”

“I’m sure you’ve had plenty of fun in your life,  _ my lord _ .” 

“I thought that nickname stopped when you learned my name.”

“Well, it came to my attention that yo--”

“No.”

“Are the pri--”

“I’d rather not--”

“--ince of Denmark.” Horatio smiles at Hamlet as he buries his face in Horatio’s shoulder. “I respect your wish for secrecy, but why?”

“The second anyone finds out they act… weird.” He pauses, as if unsure if he’s really going to say more. “Sometimes they practically kiss the floor I walk on--while talking bad about me behind my back--just so they can say they’re friends with me or be on my good side or something. Other times they’ll just avoid me completely, or try to talk politics to me, or complain to me about my family--that’s my job!--or ask to be my advisor or think they have to act all fancy or whatever. Sometimes they’ll comment on how unprincely I am and how I’m a joke that can never lead this country but--I know that already! I like art and poetry, not politics and economics, and I don’t think I can ever marry some girl and have an heir like my parents and the country want--no, need!--and it’s….” Hamlet trails off and sighs. “It’s dumb. I just-- when we first met, before we really knew each other, I didn’t want to ruin it with my name. I waited until I trusted you and knew you wouldn’t get all dumb about it; because, I really value our friendship, Horatio, and I didn’t want to jeopardize it.”

“I don’t think you’re a joke.” Horatio says, poking Hamlet in the side gently. “And I’d trust you with this country.”

Hamlet laughs. “Regardless of personal feelings, my dear Horatio, I would make an awful king. I was once given an assignment in economics where I had to budget a month for an average household and I spent two thirds of my money on bread and might have cried. Once I was present for a meeting with a foreign leader and ended up unknowingly insulting his wife before even entering the building. We almost went to war because I couldn’t contain a snide remark about her hat--which, O you should have seen it, it did NOT match her outfit AT ALL and was excruciatingly bright and gaudy. I nearly ripped it off her head on sight but that’s rude.”

“Well, I still don’t think you’re a joke.” Horatio laughs and stretches, leaning against Hamlet more. “Y’know, back in my hometown, nearly all the girls my age planned on marrying you someday.”

Hamlet snorts. “And you?”

“No, they  _ definitely _ didn’t want to marry me.”

“I find that hard to believe, but I meant what did you think of me before you met me?”

“Honestly? I guessed you were a spoiled jerk.”

“What? You didn’t want to marry me?”

“Well, all I knew about you was that you were the prince and your name was Hamlet. I don’t think that’s not enough information to marry someone over.”

“God, it’s bizarre to think about. People not knowing me or anything about me but idolizing me? That’s idiotic. I’m not worth idolizing. If they knew me, they’d stop.”  
“Or, they’d get to know you, and like the real you.”  
“Yeah, like that’d ever happen.”

“It’s more likely than you think.”

“I doubt it.”

“It could have already happened.”

“Improbable.”

“Hamlet.”

“Yes?”

“I like you.”

“Not likely. And regardless, I’m certain I like you more.”

Horatio rolls his eyes, “Whatever you say,  _ my lord. _ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *crying while googling when chicken nuggets and chocolate milk were invented* screw historical accuracy  
> i gotta say, this chapter has gotten much less "oh hey it's how Hamlet and Horatio met back in Wittenberg" and into more "HOW ABOUT..... HAMLET EATS CHICKEN NUGGETS AND CRYS ABT HIS FAMILY AND ALSO ROS AND GUIL R THERE" so sorry 2 disappoint if you thought I'm a serious writer. Also, I planned for this to be a oneshot? And now there's two chapters and they still aren't together? I'm thinking next chapter will be the last one but I see a pattern developing


	3. Do you fear death?

**THREE**

Horatio is sitting on the floor of Hamlet’s dorm room, since the two didn’t really feel like parting ways after their date--which is what Horatio is really hoping that day was--and Hamlet doesn’t have a roommate. 

“Rosencrantz and Guildenstern know where my dorm is.” He had warned before they arrived. “They could show up at any minute.”

“Better them barging in than having to hang out with the duke of some small town in Germany, whom I share a dorm with.” Horatio replied. “He didn’t get his own room like he wanted, and is incredibly bitter about it. He seems to take it out on me.” Hamlet visibly bristled at Horatio’s words, so Horatio quickly added, “No worries! He never says anything rude to me, just... glares at me a lot. I think it’s his attempt at passive aggressively getting me to leave? It doesn’t work.“

Hamlet’s room is not how Horatio expected. He thought it would be generic, with maybe some black covers instead of the default beige or some knick knacks here and there, but nothing too crazy. Maybe he was more thinking about his own room, which looked empty save for a picture of his family that sat on his bedside table and his schoolwork spread across his desk. Hamlet’s room, however, was a mess. Crumpled up pieces of paper littered the floor, some of his black clothes were hanging out of his drawers and some spread out in wadded up piles, his schoolbooks were in a black bag off to the side, looking mostly untouched, and of course, the wall. 

“I wanted to paint the room black but I figured they’d draw the line somewhere.” Hamlet says with a shrug, following Horatio’s eyes to the wall. “The school would bill me, I’d have to send the bill to my parents, they’d get mad, maybe stop paying for my tuition.” 

“I like it.” Horatio says, leaning forward to take a closer look. It was covered in drawings. Mostly rough graphite sketches of skulls and other macabre imagery, including skulls and some mildly disturbing drawings of figures and shadows. A few crowns were here and there as well as some other royal imagery, mostly accompanied by skeletons and deep shadows.

“Thanks. I doodle a lot during class, mostly skulls. Not much else, but at least I can draw skulls? And other vaguely grotesque things. And I guess… Crowns? I seem to draw those a lot.”

Horatio nods, moving to take a closer look. “What do they mean?”

“Well, all art has meaning, of course. The meaning of these in particular… Is… Something.” He stops, frowning slightly, and Horatio can tell he’s thinking. “Maybe it’s about death.” Horatio is quiet, so Hamlet expands. “Do you think about death, dear Horatio?”

“Probably an average amount.”

“Do you fear it?”

“As much as anyone, really.”

“Ah, that’s why we live.” Hamlet smiles slightly, as if he anticipated Horatio’s answer. “If we knew for certain what death would bring, and it was something really great, we’d all hang ourselves. I suspect that’s why the church declared taking one’s own life to be sin, because those devout enough to have no doubts about going to heaven would probably have killed themselves otherwise. It’s the uncertainty, and the fear, that gives us life.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“It’s human nature.” Hamlet is basically buzzing with a sudden burst of energy, obviously rather passionate about the topic of death, which is an odd thing to be so passionate about, but it suits him. “Do you ever think about the dead?”

“Don’t we all?”

“I mean rather, they used to be alive. Now they’re dead in the ground, or maybe their spirit is in another realm, and their dead body might not even be theirs anymore? Isn’t that weird? A corpse was once a living, breathing person, but now is empty? Is it even that person anymore? Is it just a memorial? Are they still in there? They used to dance and sing and now they can’t do anything!” Despite the grim topic, Hamlet is smiling, his genuine fascination and curiosity very evident. 

“Have you seen a dead body before, Horatio?”

“A few, I suppose. No one very close to me, but things happen.”

“What’s it like?”

“Eery. I don’t know exactly how to describe it, but you can feel the emptiness.” Horatio shivers.

“Interesting.” Hamlet’s eyes went wide and he is almost grinning.

“Have you seen a dead body before, my lord?”

“I have been fortunate enough to have not, though I admit I am extremely curious.”

_ Never would’ve guessed. _ Horatio smiles. With anyone else he would have found this fascination with death a bit…. creepy, but somehow Hamlet made it endearing. His gaze drifts to the balls of paper by his feet. Hamlet notices and flushes almost immediately. 

“O, uh, that? That’s nothing. Just... mistakes.” Hamlet stutters, grabbing the wadded up paper.

“O, sorry.” Horatio’s slightly taken aback.

“No, it’s cool.” Hamlet forces a smile, holding the wadded up papers behind his back instead of actually disposing of them. “Just… Poetry that sucked and some sketches that sucked.... OH! And some homework that sucked.” 

Horatio bites back a comment about the trash can being RIGHT THERE. “I’m sure none of it sucks.”

“There was an assignment for economics where I in all seriousness wrote down ‘8/16=1/8'”

“Ok, well, maybe that sucks, but I’m sure none of your art or poetry sucks.”

“All I have on my good wall is the same skull facing 3/4 to the right, it’s not pretty outside that comfort zone.”

“But it’s more than only skulls! You’re skulls are pretty, and then you also have crowns and… shadow people, eldritch monsters, and zombies?” Horatio pauses, gauging Hamlet’s reaction to make sure he was correct, and Hamlet nods. “And it all looks great!”

Hamlet shrugs. “Thank you.” He says rather softly, in contrast with how excitedly he was speaking before.

“Hey, are you alright?” Horatio moves forward and rests a hand on Hamlet’s shoulder.

Hamlet has a slight smile on his face. “Yes, my dear, I’m just kind of…” Horatio flushes slightly at ‘my dear,’ which seems so much more intimate without his name or the word ‘friend’ following. “Thinking.”

“Upon what?”

“Art. Love. Family. Things of that sort.” Horatio nods but says nothing, so Hamlet continues. “I know I’ve surely ranted your ear off about all the dumb royalty stuff that I truly couldn’t care less for,” Horatio nods again, “And this is merely another layer. All of the drawing and writing is what I truly love, which goes entirely unappreciated. It’s just… I guess I never really get encouraged or complimented when it comes to art, so it’s a bit of a shock.”

“I’m surprised.” Horatio says, “With it looking like that, I’d expect you to be showered in compliments.”

“O, when am I  _ ever _ showered in compliments?” Hamlet laughs lightly, and Horatio scrunches up his eyebrows.

“Well, it’s hard to believe you aren’t…”

“Really? What do I have going for me?”

“Well, first off,” Horatio waves his hand in the direction of Hamlet’s art wall. “You’re talented. You’re also really smart, with all the books you read, all of your philosophical rants, and your quick wit, and lastly, look at you.”

“Kind, but what’s that supposed to mean?”

“That you’re talented and smart and good looking? I thought that was obvious.”

“You’re mistaken. You’re clearly mistaking me for yourself, which I don’t know  _ how _ you’re doing, but  _ you’re _ the one who’s talented and smart and good looking.” 

“I am definitely talking about you! That doesn’t even apply to me very well.”

“You’re joking. My dear Horatio, you are talented, the smartest person I know, and extremely good looking.”

Horatio is blushing now, and Hamlet won’t even accept his compliment.

“Thank you!” Horatio practically squeaks. “But I did truly and genuinely compliment you and you need to accept it!”

“But it’s lies.”

“I swear to God, Hamlet, it’s truth.”

“I’m no God fearing man, Horatio.”

“You’re impossible.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hamlet's whole complement denying thing is definitely partially from his low self image due to his family life, but also partially because he's just messing with Horatio and trying to compliment him casually because this boy is bad at flirting and can't seem to do it without insulting himself.
> 
> this chapter isn't my favorite, but it's been in my drafts for a long while and I think I just need to get it out. I tried to go to Horatio's perspective because I feel like he seems to just sit mostly quiet while Hamlet monologues, and I wanted to get inside his head a little bit. Of course, Hamlet still monologued excessively. This time about death, which is his most #iconic rant topic, and part of why he's so relatable. luv this goth art kid.


	4. What's wrong with Hamlet?

Since that day, it was rare to see Hamlet or Horatio without the other. Hamlet skipped a majority of his classes to hang out in Horatio’s classes instead, which the professors weren’t very fond of. They didn’t protest, however, even with the prince sharing a seat with Horatio.

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were confused, to say the least. They couldn’t come up with any rational explanation for Hamlet getting along with someone so well. Hamlet never got along with them well at all, and heck, even _Ophelia_ couldn’t get along with Hamlet.

“I just don’t understand…” Rosencrantz murmurs, looking in through the window of Horatio’s latin class. Horatio was scribbling down notes on a sheet of paper while Hamlet was leaning against him, smiling softly. “He looks so….”

“Relaxed?” Guildenstern suggests.

“Well, I was gonna say ‘less moody,’ but yeah.”

Horatio’s brow furrows and he taps his pen against the table. Hamlet reaches over and combs his fingers through Horatio’s hair, his arm around Horatio’s shoulders, who visibly relaxes.

“Who is that and what happened to Hamlet….” Rosencrantz says, shaking his head.

“I didn’t know he could even be happy.”

“Yeah, and I didn’t know he could even feel anything.”

“Well, he could obviously feel anger. And sad.” Guildenstern says with a shrug.

“I mean like… Love and stuff.” Rosencrantz sits down and leans against the wall with a sigh. “I didn’t know he could like people at all.”

“Well, he certainly never seemed happy to someday marry Ophelia.” Guildenstern sits next to him and tries to make eye contact with Rosencrantz.

“Yeah, but… I didn’t know he could _like_ anyone.” Rosencranz waves his arms in the air in an attempt to make his point more clear. Guildenstern gives him a blank look. “He never liked us, and we’ve been friends since before we could talk.”

“Yeah…”

“What makes this guy so different?”

* * *

 

“They stopped watching.” Horatio remarks, looking out the window.

“About time they learn to mind their own business.”

“You didn’t seem bothered, my lord.”

“That’s because I’m not.” Hamlet lifts his head from Horatio’s shoulder and turns to meet his eyes. “It’s honestly better than them questioning me in person.”

“What would you say if they did?” Horatio says with a smirk.

“Easy.” Hamlet grins. “I’d tell them to shove twigs up their--”

“Hamlet!” The professor exclaims, banging his fists on his desk. “You’re lucky I’m so tolerant of you hanging around, don’t test me!”

“Yeah, won’t happen again.” Hamlet deadpans. The professor turns around and writes something in latin on the board. Horatio returns to copying notes.

* * *

 

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern had made up their minds. They _had_ to figure out what was wrong with Hamlet, and they _had_ to put a stop to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the wait, and the short chapter, but I honestly didn't have any solid idea for where I wanted this story to go since I originally planned for this to be a oneshot, but now I have a solid idea to work with. Thank you so much to everyone for reading, leaving kudos, and commenting, and I hope you enjoy!!


	5. Are they dating?

No one seems to understand the nature of the relationship between Hamlet and Horatio, and Horatio is no exception. Hamlet always seems to be resting his head on him, complimenting him excessively, and making any possible excuse to be with him.

Quite frankly, Horatio has no idea if they’re dating or if Hamlet is just a very affectionate person. On the resolution of “We are dating,” Horatio has quite a lengthy pro and con sides drawn up.

Con point one: Hamlet could just be an affectionate person.

Rebuttal: Hamlet is very clearly NOT an affectionate person typically, if what Rosencrantz and Guildenstern say can be trusted, although, back in the favor of the con side, what Rosencrantz and Guildenstern say can not be trusted.

Pro point one: Hamlet is clearly flirting, right?

Rebuttal: His normal snark when combined with actually caring about people can come across as flirting, Horatio just didn’t know this because Hamlet doesn’t like people, which leads into…

Con point two: Hamlet doesn’t normally like people. Wait, that could be PRO point two, or….

Quite frankly, trying to create a solid debate within his own mind isn’t even working. Horatio just doesn’t have enough facts, and a debate with oneself needs to center on facts. Whether this is just how Hamlet normally acts with friends or if this is more than how he acts with friends is impossible to decide because, other than Horatio, Hamlet  _ doesn’t have _ friends! 

Despite the self-induced headache, Horatio is having the time of his life. Horatio is typically a social vagabond. He’s friends with everybody yet has no friends. He wanders throughout acquaintances, never getting close with any, never picking fights with any. Partly, he assumes, most of these rich kids wouldn’t want to associate themselves with him, though likable he may be. Mostly, however, Horatio has a hard time tying himself down. When wandering through his social life, only really focussing on his studies, there’s no room for disappointment. There’s no room for heartbreak or drama, and he takes great comfort in that, lonely as it may be. 

Hamlet and Horatio’s relationship, whatever it may be, is an anomaly on multiple levels. They’re two loners of opposite political statuses who fell in love. Horatio thinks he can safely think that, regardless of if they’re dating or not. 

Horatio hasn’t seen his roommate, the smalltown duke, in at least a week. Horatio likes to think he doesn’t complain much, and really didn’t bring up the duke very much in conversation; however,  _ Hamlet _ is certainly one for complaining. No, the last time Horatio saw the duke was last Wednesday morning, about a week back, Horatio was sleeping in his own dorm, which is odd because he was both sleeping and at his own dorm. Hamlet had snuck in to wake him up because “he was bored, which Horatio didn’t buy for a second because if it was that early, than either Hamlet didn’t sleep or he was woken up by nightmares. If left to his own devices Hamlet sleeps past lunch. 

Before Hamlet even reached Horatio’s bed, Horatio awoke to the duke wailing. 

“V-Vampire!” The duke exclaimed, wrapping his covers tightly around his neck for protection. “Begone, beast!”

“Vampire?” Horatio asked groggily. He opened his eyes, and made eye contact with Hamlet, who just grinned madly in his direction, and turn on his heel to face the duke. 

“I-I had garlic the other day, I swear it’s still in my system…” The duke was shaking terribly and Horatio was barely able to hold back laughter. 

“I’m immune!” Hamlet hissed and Horatio buried his head in his pillow to hold back howls of laughter. “I’m an Italian vampire.” 

“O GOD! YOU MUST BE IMMUNE TO CRUCIFIXES TOO!”

“Yesss……” Hamlet’s Italian accent is, frankly, terrible, but the distortion from the hissy growls seemed to make it work.

“PLEASE, O PLEASE TAKE MY ROOMMATE INSTEAD OF ME! I’M A BLUEBLOOD! IT CAN’T TASTE GOOD, RIGHT?” Horatio wasn’t surprised in the slightest that the duke of somewhere threw him under the bus.

“Ah, the cute sleepy one? Hissss….” 

Horatio can’t breathe.

“I wouldn’t use those words, but yeah! Him! Eat him!” 

“I…. Ssupose that could work. He looks deliciousssss....” Hamlet has got to be teasing him on purpose, right?

“I-if you come back here again… I’ll have a stake.”

“Knock yourself out, kiddo, I’m immortal and unkillable hissss…” Hamlet turned back towards Horatio and walked entirely too slowly and dramatically over to him, lifted him from his bed, and shakily left the room. Horatio tried his best to feign sleep, and Hamlet tried his best not to drop Horatio, and they somehow both succeeded. The second the door was closed and they were about five footsteps down the hall, the two burst into laughter. Horatio fell from Hamlet’s arms to his feet and the two ran off laughing hysterically. 

“You know I can never go back, right?” Horatio managed to breathe out between bouts of uncontrollable laughter.

“You can stay with me, I can head back later and collect your things with moist eyes and black clothes.” Hamlet feigned sadness for a moment. “O, dear sweet Horatio! Too young to get eaten by a vampire! Too young!”

“I know you specified black clothes because mourning, but do you even own anything that  _ isn’t _ black?” 

“I think I own a white button up and a purple tie?” Hamlet replied, and then after a pause, “Maybe some patterned socks.” 

“You’re ridiculous.” Horatio said, smiling fondly. “Imagine if I showed back up with a massive bite mark. How do you think the duke of nowhere would react to that?”

“Probably shocked that you’re alive, he might cry.” Hamlet paused. “Would it have been too much to feign the whole blood drinking ordeal?”

“I don’t think I would have been able to keep a straight face that long.” 

Hamlet did, in fact, dress in the blackest clothes he owned--and he was  _ very _ insistent that there are various shades of black and he had found the darkest ones and didn’t want Horatio to think Hamlet was skimping on his death--and made his way down to Horatio’s now former room to grab all of his clothes and textbooks. The duke must have thought it was weird that the Prince of Denmark was stealing his dead roommate’s clothes, though Hamlet insists he cried enough to sell the story. 

Now, the two share a room. Horatio’s clothes fit into the top drawer on Hamlet’s second dresser and he fits well on Hamlet’s second bed and overall, it’s a great arrangement. 

But, God, if only Horatio knew if they were dating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alt chapter title: Hi, I did speech and not debate so I only have a vague idea of how debate works, and also my info speech was on vampires so there's that.


	6. Quite chap-fallen?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've read every comment like a million times and it makes me super happy that people are enjoying my silly writing about a 400 year old play, thank you so much!! <3

Hamlet is very confused. He’s gone his whole life without being close to anyone, and had honestly just assumed he was unable to have any sort of  _ feelings _ as far as people were concerned. The closest he’d managed to be to anyone was Ophelia. Ophelia was nice, sure, but he’d never felt any of the connection she seemed to have. They’ve been practically engaged since birth, and that’s a very political move on their parents part and Hamlet cannot stand politics.

He can stand Ophelia, he thinks to himself. He doesn’t dislike her, truly. He just doesn’t feel  _ anything for her. _ He thinks back on all of the “friends” he’s had through his life, the people he’s barely tolerated and the people he hasn’t, the people he’s avoided and the people he’s fought, and can’t seem to be able to name one person he actually likes. 

No… That’s not... true... He allows his mind to drift farther back than his teen years and back into his childhood. He remembers, suddenly, the dead jester, and an old grief washes over him. He hasn’t let himself think of Yorick in years.

He lets himself remember Yorick, a young jester in his dad’s court. He was hilarious and witty and far too young. He remembers riding around the castle on the jester’s back, howling with laughter. He remembers smiling and laughing more then than he had in the decade that followed. He remembers kissing the jester softly, before he knew what that meant. He remembers the jester’s body, lifeless and dead. 

God, Yorick. How had he forgotten Yorick? How had he managed to so completely block off his memories of Yorick to the point it affected him that greatly? 

He assumes Horatio, who’s on the other side of the room, is asleep, but is nonetheless grateful for the darkness to hide his silent tears. He digs deeper in his mind, allowing himself to remember the jester, remember his feelings, remember the start of his morbid fascination with death. 

He vividly remembers watching Yorick die. He vividly imagines watching Horatio die. He feels lightheaded. He clutches himself tightly, shaking, and trying desperately to get that mental image out of his mind. He stares across the dark room at Horatio, and from this distance can’t seem to see him moving. 

Hamlet stumbles to his feet, focusing on his own rapid heartbeat, and slowly moves to the other side of the room. He just needs to check Horatio’s pulse. That’s all. He reaches out to Horatio’s sleeping form and gently rests two fingers on his throat. He breathes an audible sigh of relief at the feeling of his heartbeat. 

“Hamlet?” Horatio grumbles groggily and Hamlet freezes.

“...Yeah?” He replies, trying his best to sound casual. 

“If you wanted your second bed back you could’ve just asked.” Horatio rolls over, closer to the wall, to make room for Hamlet, and Hamlet’s heart skips a beat.

“Th-that’d be, great, yeah.” Hamlet lies down next to Horatio and steadies his breathing. Hopefully he can bottle Yorick back up by morning.

* * *

 

He feels… Better. There’s almost a feeling of peace, which is very odd, considering that he also feels slightly more anxious than usual, but he’s not bad. Horatio was concerned when Hamlet skipped his writing class in favor in Horatio’s arithmetic class, but Hamlet shrugged off Horatio’s worry and stayed with him, just in case. 

Hamlet rested his head on Horatio’s shoulder and listened to the soft sound of his breathing, and tried to block out the math.

Horatio’s arithmetic professor ignored Hamlet. Since Hamlet enjoys his writing class and despises mathematics, he hadn’t actually attended this particular class before, but the teacher had heard enough about Hamlet from the other teachers to not bother commenting on his presence. 

“Numbers are fake, Horatio.” Hamlet says absentmindedly about halfway through the lesson. “They’re made up nonsense used only to maintain political power. Honestly, the only thing that  _ truly _ means anything is art, because that’s about feelings and people, not about power and  _ numbers. _ ”

“That’s money, not numbers.” Horatio whispers, trying to pay attention to the lesson.

“No, whoever has the most significant number of  _ anything _ holds power and it’s garbage.”

“What about page numbers?”

“The last page obviously has a sick sense of superiority.” Hamlet says with conviction. The professor notices the disruption and marches over to Horatio’s desk. 

“Hamlet, do you have anything you’d wish to share, or would you rather get back to _your own_ _class_?” she asks, glaring at Hamlet.

“Hmm…” he taps his finger on his chin, feigning serious deliberation. “No.”

“Ok. Do you want me to send you back to your normal class?” The proffessor says angrily. Hamlet looks at her blankly.

“Not really.” 

“Then you better be quiet and stop distracting my students.” 

“Alright.”

“That includes Horatio.” 

“He won't even notice me.” 

“Hamlet, you are practically on top of him.”

“And?” Hamlet is tired of this. If she really cares so much about teaching this class she should _ teach this class _ instead of pestering him.

“AND he needs to know this material!”

“Well, if I may be so bold,” Horatio interrupts, “I  _ do _ know this material.”

“Very well. You better get good marks, this is on you.” The professor finally turns on her heel and walks back to the front of the room. 

“But, seriously, my lord,” Horatio whispers, “Why are you skipping writing?”

“To see you, of course, my dear Horatio.” Hamlet says, smiling softly.  _ Because I need to know you’re alive. _

Horatio still looks worried, but drops the subject, knowing by now that pressing Hamlet does no good. He monologues when he pleases and will not when he doesn’t. 

The next class period Hamlet spends doodling. There’s skulls and caskets and other macabre imagery, which isn’t out of character. That realization hits him dimly. He isn’t changed by his unburied memories, he’s the same he’s always been. The memories hadn’t been buried very deep in his mind at all, just barely below the surface. Though the lines drawn between Yorick and his behavior are new, nothing has… actually changed. 

“I’ve decided, dear Horatio, that I’m perfectly fine.” Hamlet remarks between Horatio’s classes. 

“You’ve decided?” Horatio questions.

“Yep.” Hamlet says, popping the p. “I’m about as normal as I usually am.”

“Well, that’s good.”

“I’d think so.”

“I’m glad you’ve come to that… decision?” 

“Uh-huh.”

With that out of the way, Hamlet moves back to his initial quandary, the one that got him uncovering dangerous information in the first place. Back to his feelings for Horatio.

This… should be easier to sort out, now that he remembers Yorick. The issue isn’t that he doesn’t know the nature of what he feels for Horatio, because that much is obvious, but what to make of those feelings. 

Horatio is… O, Horatio is  _ amazing _ . That much is established. He’s not one to shy away from expressing his feelings, though the fact he has  _ positive _ feelings, especially in regards to another person, is another thing entirely.

Is he coming on too strong? Horatio doesn’t seem to mind, so maybe not strong enough. How does this work? Ophelia was always rather shy about her feelings, obvious as they were, and that certainly didn’t work, though in her defense, Hamlet figures that he wouldn’t have been able to reciprocate her feelings even if he  _ wanted to _ . That brings forward another thing. What if Horatio can’t reciprocate his feelings? What if he’s just platonically accepting Hamlet’s subtle flirting and hoping it’s nothing more? 

“Horatio, dear?” Hamlet asks aloud as they settle on a bench outside.

“Yes, my lord?” Will he ever stop with that nickname? Now that he  _ actually knows who Hamlet is _ and  _ has known for a while now _ , you’d think that would deter him, but apparently not. 

“How do relationships work?”

“Honestly? I’m trying to figure that out myself.”

“What, should I be jealous?” Hamlet nudges Horatio in a joking matter, though he’s only half joking.

“Opposite, really.” Horatio replies, avoiding Hamlet’s eyes.

“And why’s that?” Hamlet’s heartbeat quickens. “Are you questioning your relationship with me?” He tries his best to sound calm but his voice comes out strained. 

“I might be.” 

“Have I been… Too obvious?” Hamlet manages to ask.

“Well, considering I’ve been wondering whether we’ve actually been dating or not for the past two weeks, possibly.” Horatio says with a  laugh.

“Wait, seriously?”

“...Yes?”

“So, if I had been less subtle, you wouldn’t have minded at all?”

“Was  _ that _ subtle?”

“Yes?”

“I doubt you know the meaning of the word.” Horatio says with a laugh. “I’d like to see what you think’s  _ less subtle  _ than.”

At that, Hamlet pulled Horatio towards him and pressed a quick kiss to his lips. “How’s that for subtle?”

* * *

 

“Rosencrantz, you’re not gonna believe this!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting back into Hamlet's head again after chillin' with other characters for a few chapters more like I Forgot How Sad He Is.  
> I'm trying to make this fic happy, but I don't want to gloss over Hamlet's mental health too much because that wouldn't be doing him justice. I'm trying to write him as happier than in the play, since his dad had JUST DIED in the play so he's extra sad, but I don't want to make him just super happy because that'd be an injustice to the character. I hope I'm both doing him justice and writing a happy story? I hope? I had to edit this a bunch to make it less angsty tbh draft one was just... extremely depressing.


	7. What are you on about?

Hamlet attended his  _ History of Performing Arts  _ class the next day, which was a class he did not share with Horatio. His doodles in the margins of his notes were slightly more morbid than usual, but he wasn’t constantly plagued with images of Horatio’s death, so that’s a vast improvement in his book.

They’re in the middle of their playwriting unit, which Hamlet has found especially intriguing, despite his typically apathetic attitude towards school. He vaguely considers pursuing dramatic writing as a career, but quickly knocks that off of his list because of the mandatory career path he already has set out for him. 

Politics suck.

Class ends, and he puts away his scribbly notes on Christopher Marlowe, decorated with excessive skulls and macabre symbolism, and makes his way to the door. Before he can quite leave, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern slide into the doorway, blocking it entirely with smug looks on their face and ridiculous poses.

They had to have choreographed that. 

“So, Hammy!” Guildenstern drawls, smirking. “Got anything you’d like to tell us?”

“Yes: Get lost.” Hamlet snaps, trying to shove past the two futilely. God, why’d he have to take so long to put away his notes? If he wasn’t the last person in the room, simple politeness from the two to innocent bystanders could have been his savior. 

“Aw, no need to be so grumpy. We  _ know _ you have feelings.” Rosencrantz says, matching Guildenstern’s smirk. 

“The current emotion I am feeling is how much I utterly detest you.” Hamlet retorts.

“I know you don’t mean that, but, anyway! I meant  _ positive _ emotions!” Rosencrantz says.

“Like looo-oooove~!” Guildenstern adds, drawing out the word for an obnoxious amount of time.

“What are you on about?” Hamlet feels his pulse jump despite his attempt at calm. No way are those two bozos going to  _ actually get to him _ . No way. He’s above this, he reassures himself. 

“Oh I think you know.” Rosencrantz’s voice cuts into his thoughts of superiority like a knife.

“Well, I don’t believe I do, so enlighten me.” Hamlet manages to maintain his composure, but barely. 

“Ugh, do we really have to  _ spell it out for you? _ ” Rosencrantz groans.

“Well, your handwriting is terrible.” God, that wasn’t even that witty. He’s certainly losing his composure. O, God.

“I’ve been working on my calligraphy so that hurts.” 

“Your penmanship is beautiful, Ros.”

“Why thank you, at least SOMEONE’S a good friend!” Rosencrantz says, then shoots Hamlet a dirty look.

“As opposed to the person who… has never claimed to be your friend? Ever? Quite the opposite, in fact-”

“Ok! Just! Quit with the moody thing for a second and talk to me.” Rosencrantz exclaims, cutting Hamlet off. Hamlet is surprised, since despite the two’s typically rude behavior, neither of them have ever actually cut him off like that before. They seem to think of him with reverence, despite how they act, so it’s… alarming that Rosencrantz would be so informal.

“What?” Hamlet deadpans.

“I mean…” Rosencrantz trails off and frowns. “You… know you can trust us, right?”

Guildenstern is oddly silent. The two typically seem to be two mouths controlled by the same brain, alternating nearly every sentence. The fact it’s just Rosencrantz is… odd. 

“I…” Hamlet trails off, because he honestly has no idea what to say. On one hand, he does not trust them worth anything since he’s near certain that they’d rat to his parents on any misbehavior in order to earn more money; however, the tone of Rosencrantz’s voice makes him want to rethink that.

Thinking objectively for once, he realizes that if they were truly out to get him, or just out for money, the probably would have ratted him out over his constant class skipping and overall not super princely behavior. 

“A respectable amount.” Hamlet replies warily. 

“And you know we wouldn’t… actually tell your parents or Ophelia or anything…” Rosencranz continues, his smirk and cheesy pose gone. 

Hamlet doesn’t respond. He doubts Rosencrantz would like honesty.

“We won’t. We just…” Rosencrantz sighs. Hamlet hasn’t seen him so, to borrow a word from his book,  _ gloomy _ before. 

“And you told me  _ I _ was moody.” 

“Oh, you are moody, don’t start with that. But…. you understand we aren’t big enough jerks to out you to your family, right? I just… want you to know we’re here and you can trust us.”

“What, no plan to break us up?” There’s no use in denying what Rosencrantz obviously knows, and there’s no use in needlessly beating around the bush any further. 

“What?! No!” Rosencrantz actually looks offended. “I don’t actually hate you or anything! Messing with you sometimes is fun, sure, but that’s what friends do, right? But with the big stuff I have your back and I just… want you to realize that?”

Hamlet just freezes. He stares at Rosencrantz, who looks so weirdly genuine, his normal joking demeanor gone. He turns his gaze to Guildenstern, who’s still silent. Guildenstern meets his eyes.

“Y’know, it’d make sense to trust us.” Guildenstern says softly. 

“And why would that be?”

“Because we’re- and you’re- and…” Guildenstern gesticulates wildly, trying to figure out the best way to explain… whatever he’s trying to explain.

“C’mon, you can do it.” Rosencrantz says, patting Guildenstern on the back. Guildenstern smiles, relaxing slightly. 

“We won’t do anything dumb about this because it makes  _ so much sense. _ First it seemed like you just hated everybody, and that was ok ‘cause then it wasn’t personal if you were a bit….”

“Snappy?” Rosencrantz supplies.

“I was gonna say irascible but that works too.”

“Oh, irascible is a good one!”

“Anyway, if you hated everyone then it’s no big deal, but then you started liking Horatio, and that was weird, and we were confused. Not because of any issue with you liking Horatio, don’t get me wrong, but because you were so… nice? We figured if that was how you acted with friends… Then we weren’t your friends, and  _ no one _ was your friend, which seemed super weird. I get your whole lone wolf thing but hating everyone seemed a bit unlikely.”

“Then I saw you smooching.” 

“Yeah, Guild saw you and Horatio and suddenly it all made sense! You don’t hate us, and Horatio isn’t your only friend, ‘cause that’d just be sad on both sides.”

“Instead, Horatio’s your  _ boyfriend _ and we’re still your best friends!”

“Well.” Hamlet didn’t bother continuing his sentence. The two looked at him expectantly, but Hamlet wasn’t here to get psychoanalyzed by two dingbats, he was here to learn about playwrights and leave, and that didn’t appear to be happening. 

Hamlet hates dealing with his feelings in general, but other people getting into his business is all the worse. Hamlet deals with his emotions in the dead of night when awoken from a nightmare and no one can see him cry like the mature adult he is, not in the doorway of his theatrical history class when his two sort of friends decide it’s a good idea to hold some kind of intervention. 

“Ok, maybe we’re not your  _ best friends _ , Horatio’s probably your best friend, but still! We’re ok, right?” Guildenstern just wouldn’t stop prodding, would he? 

Hamlet let the silence hang in the air for an uncomfortable amount of time before speaking: “I don’t quite understand how you saw Horatio and I together in the first place; it’s not like we’re very public. At all. Quite the opposite, so you had to have been spying on me. On top of that, I  _ know _ my parents are paying you to keep an eye on me, and though granted you don’t seem to have done a great job reporting back to them, you are payed to be my ‘friends,’ so I appreciate the sentiment but I understandably have a few issues here and I am missing class.” With that, he straightened the bag on his shoulder and walked passed Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to go straight to the library. No way was he heading to class when his mind was so preoccupied, he needed isolation and silence.

Not total silence, that’s not nice. Though hearing his pulse in his ears can be oddly comforting, not hearing anything or anyone else is… strange, and leads to his thoughts getting to be a bit much. 

Mostly silent, mostly lonely. His dark corner of the library where he had first met Horatio, seated on the ground surrounded on three sides with bookshelves. He grabbed an interesting one with a black cover and lies on his side curled around it, trying to focus on the words. It appears to be about some plucky nobody uncovering some big conspiracy or whatever, but the conspiracy is dumb and the plucky nobody is dumb and he puts the book down. 

He lies on his back and stares up at the tall ceiling, the book by his side. It’d be cool to stop having thoughts and feelings. Why’d he have to get feelings again, anyway?

No, the feelings thing is… good. It’s the part where he has to sort through his brain to figure out how all this feeling stuff works that’s hard. After years of turning all of his emotions off and being mostly numb, kind of gloomy, it’s hard to take down all his mental barriers and try and figure out what things feel like and don’t feel like, decipher between different feelings, and try and figure out what’s real and what’s fake stuff his brain made up to replace feelings. 

Ugh, why do brains suck? Maybe he should’ve enrolled in some psychology classes; his parents would probably appreciate that because of diplomacy reasons, and that sucks. No, it would have sucked in general. He’d probably have to talk about his feelings to a whole class, and Hamlet only monologues when he wants to monologue. 

He must have dozed off. When he hears footsteps walking towards him, he’s surprised to see a change in the lighting from the bright afternoon to the darker evening. The sun hasn’t quite started setting, but it’s not high enough to shine through the windows as intently.

“I figured I’d find you here. Is… Everything ok?” Horatio asks. Hamlet doesn’t even have to look up to know it’s him.

“The clowns know too much.” Hamlet groans, but smiles despite himself. Horatio has that effect on him. 

“Hmm?” Horatio lies down on the floor next to Hamlet. “What’s the matter?”

“That they know things that they honestly shouldn’t and I don’t know how to feel about it.”

“I mean, what’s the matter they know too much about?”

“Us.”

“Us, like us us?”

“Ay.”

“Huh. Are you worried?”

“Surprisingly, I’m not worried at all. I somehow… trust them?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey this cool question has been plaguing me lately: is Hamlet an emo or a goth? First glance reveals emo, but a critical eye points more towards goth, and evidence on both sides is overwhelming.  
> anyway, I've been wanting to wrap up this fic soon, like within the next few chapters soon, so I don't think this will extend beyond 10 chapters, next one might even be the last one? This is mostly because I decided I want to write a Hamlet vampire canon-divergence kinda fic because.... vampires are my weakness and according to slavic vampire myths, with the life and death Hamlet had it's super likely he'd resurrect as a vampire 40 days later so... after I wrap this I might Do That. I hope you enjoyed this and will enjoy the rest, i love u


	8. Isn't that wild?

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern didn’t have a plan, and yet it still--somehow--failed. Miserably. They pace around their shared dorm--not quite sure how they failed or what they were even attempting to do--and think. Hamlet would probably provide some snarky comment about how thinking is probably new to them or something, but Hamlet isn’t here. Hamlet is, more likely than not, with Horatio somewhere at the moment.  _ Canoodling… _

“Ophelia?” Guildenstern asks aloud, not bothering with the rest of the sentence. Rosencrantz understands. 

“Ophelia…?” Rosencrantz echos, confused. Ok, maybe Rosencrantz  _ doesn’t _ understand. Weird.

“I mean, should we get Ophelia’s opinion on the matter? She seemed closer to Hamlet than anyone until… now.”

“We told Hamlet we wouldn’t out him, that’s low.” Rosencrantz says flatly.

“Yes, of course! I wasn’t suggesting we out him, but rather… Get another opinion?”

“Guild, how on Earth would we get an opinion on the matter without discussing the matter?”

“By using the word ‘friend,’ duh!” Guildenstern exclaims, crossing his arms and frowning. 

“Huh. I guess that could work, but I’m writing it! I’ve been working on my calligraphy.” Rosencrantz races for the paper and a writing utensil and the two get to work, bickering lightly about how to word this sentence and that, until they have a fully written letter. 

“Your penmanship is astounding, Ros!” Guildenstern says, holding the paper in front of him. “Hamlet doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“Aw, thanks!” Rosencrantz replies, kissing Guildenstern on the cheek.

* * *

 

 

Ophelia was sat cross legged in her closet, absentmindedly embroidering something she’d ideally like to hang on her wall. She was concentrating on a rose--which was part of the border--but it seemed the more she worked on it the less it looked like a rose and the more it looked like some weird smiling face. Not ideal, she’d say. 

Her closet is rather large. She’s lucky to live in a place as lovely and large as Elsinore, and doesn’t want to get to greedy and ask for another room, so the closet functions as a sort of studio. She spends most of her days holed up in the closet--the door to her room and the closet door shut--and works diligently on either one of her paintings or some random sewing project. In the corner of the closet is a stack of a few canvases she hasn’t looked at in a while, with large skulls painted on them. 

Hamlet, on a few occasions, has rushed to her chambers to ask her to paint something or other--most times a skull--and each time she has. She mostly sticks to paintings of nature, mostly flowers and water, but she does have a soft spot for a bit of the more macabre. There was one time where Hamlet stood at her canvas with her, a charcoal pencil in hand, and they worked together to make one of her favorite paintings she had. She had it hanging above her bed for a few days before her brother insisted that she take it down. 

She didn’t understand why her family found it so grim; it was merely a skull with flowers growing out of it to symbolize the cycle of life. Hamlet was really the only person who’d indulge her in such thoughts, even if he pretended to hate her half the time. 

She decided to give up on the rose. She ripped out her seams--maybe a little more aggressively than normal--and left her closet for some air. She made sure to blow out all her candles--lavender scented!--and gave herself a moment to adjust to the natural light coming in through her bedroom window before heading out of her room. Maybe a walk by the gardens could clear her head. 

She got halfway down the stairs when she was stopped by a maid who was just on her way to bring her a letter. She found this very odd, because she couldn’t think of anyone not at the castle who would think to send her a letter. She briefly entertained the thought that it could be Hamlet, before dismissing that as ridiculous. He’s like a baby without object permanence; the second he’s away from someone they no longer exist in his eyes. 

Of course, the letter wasn’t from Hamlet, but who it  _ was _ from was shocking all the same. 

“Why on Earth would those two send me a letter?” She exclaimed aloud. She pocketed the letter--she makes sure that all of her clothing has big pockets, though she more often than not has to add them herself. That’s totally fine, though, because when she adds her own pockets she can use cute and bright fabric and no one else has to know. 

She decides to go read the letter while sat on a bench she likes. The soft babble of the fountain and all the colorful flowers make it her favorite place on the castle grounds. She feels the nice spring breeze in her hair and listens to the birds chirp with a soft smile on her face. It’s almost the polar opposite of her dark closet, silent except for the softly crackling candles that slowly fill up the small room with lavender scented smoke until she can’t breath. 

She runs her fingers along the envelope for a moment while contemplating what could possibly await her inside before opening it. 

_ Hey Ophelia, _

_ So, you know how Hamlet has like, no friends and no one who he trusts at all and is never happy? Well, turns out, he does have friends sometimes that he’s very affectionate with and make him very happy. Isn’t that wild? Have you encountered this happy-Hamlet before? Is this the same Hamlet we grew up with? Phelia, you gotta know, this is one of the scariest things me and Guild have ever seen, like, he’s hugging this dude and laughing and smiling all the time. Is something wrong with him? This has been going on for over a month now, and now he’s all mad at us for pointing it out and it’s like, ok dude, you’re being super obvious, of course we noticed. Yeah, so like, if you have any advice or insight into the mind of Hamlet that’d be much appreciated.  _

_ Miss ya, _

_ Rosencrantz. _

_ AND GUILDENSTERN!! _

Out of all of the things the letter could have been, this she did not expect; though, it’s not like she was really expecting anything in the first place, so this is as good as anything. 

She’s seen Hamlet happy. She’s seen Hamlet smile and laugh; she’s seen Hamlet act like her friend. It’s not entirely new, it’s just… not common. Not consistent. 

Hamlet always seemed to visit her in the dead of night. She’s certain he was up because of nightmares. He had that look in his eyes. She’s dealt with her fair share of nightmares so she knows that look. Her nightmares have slowed down now, but for years after her mom died they were nearly nightly. He acted like he was just bored, and she was near always up far too late, so he would bring a book over to read while she painted. 

Hamlet is a different person at 3 am. He’s too tired to put up all his walls and maintain his apathetic facade. He’s too tired to pretend he doesn’t care about people, that he doesn’t have friends.

Ophelia knows when to just not say anything. She knows when to just play along and only say a few words, and Hamlet knows this. He trusts that she can keep their talks secret, even without the two ever verbally deciding to. 

Ophelia knows she gets weird looks from everyone in the castle--especially her brother and father--when she says Hamlet’s a good person and her friend, but she doesn’t care because they don’t understand who Hamlet is.

3 am Hamlet entering the waking world, however, is  _ weird _ . She takes a colored pencil out of her pocket and turns the letter over to the back to write her own letter. Not to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, mind you, she’s writing a letter to Hamlet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for not updating in like... at least a month, probably more. being out of school has improved my mental health so much, which kinda makes it harder to step back into Hamlet's head and write him well? whoops. I wrote the Rosenstern and Guildencrantz or whatever part weeks ago but I caught writers block after that. I then turned to Ophelia and she is gonna save me cause hoo boy was she fun to write! I hope to finish this up soon and maybe dip into that vampire Hamlet fic I wanna do. thank you bunches for waiting, love ya!


	9. Are you in love?

It’s honestly not rare for Hamlet to get mail; no matter how much he likes to deny it, he  _ is _ a prince which means a lot of… garbage, more or less. Sometimes there’s fan mail from some young peasant who doesn’t know a single thing about him other than the fact that if she somehow (absolutely impossibly) won him over she’d be set for life, and other times there’s more political letters from some foreign ambassador who wants to cozy up with him to appease his parents. Hamlet mostly trashes his mail after skimming through for his parent’s names or anything else important, but when he sees a mint green colored pencil he freezes. 

There’s no name on the envelope, but the round messy scrawl is so innately familiar to him. He stops to run his finger over the letters for a moment as he reads “ _ I’ve enclosed something you might find interesting.” _

After his fingers linger on the green text a moment longer, he rips open the envelope. Inside is a letter addressed to Ophelia that has green scribbles all over it. He laughs at her crude sketches of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern despite himself before he reads:

_ Hey Ophelia, _

_ So, you know how Hamlet has like, no friends  _ **ouuuuch, well they’ve sort of got a point? ;P** _ and no one who he trusts at all and is never happy?  _ **They need to learn that how someone acts around them =/= their entire personality :/** _ Well, turns out, he does have friends sometimes that he’s very affectionate with and make him very happy. Isn’t that wild?  _ **uuuhhhh huuuuh you better tell me who this is!!** _ Have you encountered this happy-Hamlet before?  _ **agaaaaiin with this** _ Is this the same Hamlet we grew up with?  _ **O** _ Phelia,  _ **you dont have the right to nickname me!!** _ you gotta know, this is one of the scariest things me and Guild have ever seen,  _ **besides a mirror? I am gonna draw myself holding out a hand for a high five and you better high five it or so help me god** _  like, he’s hugging this dude and laughing and smiling all the time.  _ **WHO IS HE?** _ Is something wrong with him? This has been going on for over a month now, and now he’s all mad at us for pointing it out and it’s like, ok dude, you’re being super obvious, of course we noticed. Yeah, so like, if you have any advice or insight into the mind of Hamlet that’d be much appreciated.  _

**Hey!! It’s been a while. So i got this thing in the mail and figured these two had to have been driving you crazy by spying in on your life (I know how that is) and i wanted to give my condolences. Also: i am very nosy and i want to know who this guy is who’s able to make you happy when the moon’s not shining. Are you in love? You can tell me!! Also, I’m enclosing a few snippets from my sketchbook that I think you’ll appreciate. I miss you, Hamlet!!**

**-Ophelia**

The sketchbook pictures she mentioned were pretty cool. There were a few bones with flowers in them, a few landscape she painted that made the sketchbook paper warp pretty badly, including the front of the castle and the cemetery nearby. There was also a little doodle of her and himself, standing next to each other with her smiling and him looking incredibly gloomy. 

He’d forgotten how much he’d missed Ophelia. Looking at her sketches brought a soft smile to his face and caused him to forget about the purpose of her letter. Hamlet didn’t realize he was crying until a teardrop landed in the middle of her painting of Castle Elsinore. 

He quickly wiped his eyes and sat up straighter than when he was hunched over Ophelia’s art and shoved her pieces and the envelope further up his desk. He rested his forehead on the smooth surface for a second and tried to focus on slowing down his breathing. Barely moving his hand, he pulled the letter closer to him again, lifting his head to reread it. And reread it again.

It was well established that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are absolutely the worst, but the fact they’d go so far as to mail Ophelia over the fact they can’t possibly accept that he’s happy? God. He’s lucky Ophelia seems to understand how he feels. He grabs a charcoal pencil and rips out a page of his sketchbook (which is unperforated so the page rips out rather roughly) and starts writing.

* * *

 

Mail is too slow. Ophelia has been spending most of her time by the mailbox as of late hoping for Hamlet to get back to her about who his mysterious new friend is and maybe send her some of his drawings. 

Ever since the school year started, Ophelia had been mostly bored out of her mind. She knew this would happen, and had nearly sent in an application to Wittenberg to study art, but her brother and father had both told her that was ridiculous and unnecessary. They firmly believed Ophelia would marry Hamlet, join their families, make everyone rich, and then live out the rest of her years as no more than an accessory. She finds it useless to argue with them, despite the fact she knows that isn’t how she wants her life to go, and isn’t how Hamlet wants his life to go either. 

Late night conversations about Hamlet’s unsurety on whether he could even experience love and Ophelia’s soft agreement filled her mind. His rants on how much he detested having his entire future laid out for him and her wishing she had a worthwhile future at all.

By the time she finally gets his letter, it feels like it’s been years. (It’s been a week.) She rushes to her studio/closet and shuts the door behind her and lights all her candles before reading:

_ Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are THE WORST!!!! Somehow I thought they were better than this, and somehow I was wrong. How is it that I expect the worst and am still disappointed? _

_ Nevertheless, I did enjoy your letter. Your shading on that rose was so cool, I’ve been trying all day to recreate it! I’ll make sure to include some of my sketchbook drawings, though they are mostly smeared messes and not very good, I wish I could take at least one art class at this school--preferably instead of political science or economics. I hate those classes with an intense ferocity, but I digress. _

_ I suppose I should tell you about Horatio, since the two numbskulls brought him to your attention.  _

_ First and foremost: he is gorgeous. I won't waste words describing his exact appearance since I suspect anything I say would be an injustice. Hopefully you’ll see him in person.   _

_ Secondly: he is so incredibly smart he makes me feel brain dead in comparison. In a good way, if that wasn’t clear. _

_ Thirdly: He’s got an excellent sense of humor that doesn’t come at my expense. Peculiar how that’s hard to come by. _

_ Fourthly: I do not think that is a word, but nethertheless Horatio is the best person I know (sorry, Ophelia) the end. _

_ O, and I enclosed an application for Wittenberg in case you’ve thrown yours away. No matter what your family says, you would do spectacularly at this school and would be much happier here than holed up in your closet all day. There’s no way breathing in all of that lavender is healthy. _

_ I miss you, _

_ Hamlet _

Ophelia reads over the letter a few times, and the last paragraph more times than that. Hamlet… Still writes as if he has a thesaurus open next to him (which he most certainly does). Stranger still, the whole letter read as friendly and happy, which is strange. What kind of magic is Horatio using to make Hamlet so happy? No, Ophelia knows the answer to that: love. Hamlet is so in love its honestly silly. “Braindead in a good way,” like come  _ on. _

Ophelia reaches into the envelope and feels her fingers brush over the Wittenberg application for a brief moment before she just removes Hamlet’s art. 

There are of course a lot of skulls because it’s Hamlet, but mixed in is a sloppy rose that looks like Hamlet spent a lot of time on. Ophelia smiles at it and pins it to the canvas she has out. She doubts she’ll finish that one anyway. She looks back to Hamlet’s sketches and sees a doodle of the two of them, with Hamlet smiling and her looking extremely gloomy, and she laughs out loud. 

Once she’s spent a nonsensical amount of time staring at Hamlet’s sketches, she takes a deep breath and reaches into the envelope. She turns the application in her hands slowly, contemplating. Hamlet had signed his name in charcoal pencil under the list of recommendations and marked out the classes he thought she should select with a normal pencil. She searched through her stuff for a writing utensil that’s not super colorful and started to fill out the application.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, at approx midnight: hey i should probably write another chapter for this  
> well thank u late night spontaneity for helpin me through here... also subtle self drag with the thesaurus thing because i CONSTANTLY have a thesaurus open just to make sure i get that synonym with juust the right connotation


End file.
